Drink up, Brownie. The Code Pink protesters are comin' and we wanna ogle us some bosoms.

WEATHER: Beautiful and warm.

MILES: Once again, 0, because apparently I only blog on days I don’t run.

MILES THIS WEEK: 13-14ish.

WHERE TO: The depths of Hell itself.

MOOD: <bangs head on table>

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

I apologize for the lag time between posts. We’re gonna get it right one of these days. This time, the excuse is that life vomited all over my shoes last week. I won’t go into details, so I’ll let you fill in the blanks (dead parakeet, I dumped one of my 9 hotties, dead wallaby, every student loan in the UNIVERSE (including those for which I did not sign up) came due, dead marmot, accidentally foffed (fart-coughed, DUHHH) during an important work meeting). So I had considered writing a post about how running can help you cope, how the cool air rushing about your limbs can help you shake off the malaise of even the most pitiful miserable existence as you jog up Massachusetts Ave. and clutch your hands to your chest and know that heartbreak is going to wash off your skin like oh shit no I can’t do it I’m trying to be serious but here it comes